


Damaged

by AlessNox



Series: Starcrossed [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Adult Content, Adventure, Angst, Angst and Humor, Bombs, Cheating, Christmas Party, Cohabitation, Confessions, Everybody loves John, F/M, Heterosexual Sex, Hurt/Comfort, I tried to blow up parliament before they did, Johnlock - Freeform, Love, M/M, Major Character Injury, Masturbation, More Sex, Nursing, Pain, Sex, Suicide Attempt, Wheelchair Sex, everything screwed up, illicit backrubs, possible brain damage, too much darn sex, while the cats away
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-09
Updated: 2013-02-20
Packaged: 2017-11-28 17:07:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 20,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/676818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlessNox/pseuds/AlessNox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's a rough reunion for Sherlock and John after John's wedding but things change when Sherlock gets injured saving John's life. /Slash/ A sequel to the story "Moving".</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. An Explosive Reunion

John Watson halted outside of the door to 221B his hand frozen around the copper key as he turned it in the lock. It felt strange entering his old flat after all these months. Mrs Hudson was away for the weekend visiting her sister, and Sherlock was refusing his calls.

 John had honestly intended to return the key when he had moved out of the flat with Sherlock, but Mrs. Hudson had folded his fingers around it refusing to take it back. "You know how Sherlock is," she had said, "If he gets into one of his moods, you'll be needing that key," but so far he had not needed it. He had not had a reason to go back to Baker Street. For five months, John had not seen Sherlock at all.

 John would not have thought of violating Sherlock's privacy if he hadn't received a call from Lestrade asking for his help. John was here at Lestrade's request to retrieve a certain piece of evidence from Sherlock's flat that was needed in the investigating of a recent bombing.

"I would have done another drug raid," Greg had said, "but I don't think that Sherlock would pass, if you know what I mean. It's been all downhill for him since you left. He's been experimenting again, and smoking like a chimney. He's almost like he was before he met you, and he was a right git then. So, since your recent happiness has taken a bit out of mine, I think you owe me." John had laughed at that, a bit nervously perhaps, and Greg Lestrade had shown him a photograph of the notebook that he needed. "If you could just drop by and get him to give us the notebook, we can sort this out without any fuss."

"I'll see what I can do," John had said confident then that it was a good thing to do. A confidence that he no longer felt as he turned the handle and entered the flat that they had once shared. He knocked on the door, one foot already inside the room as he called, "Hello! Hello Sherlock! It's John."

 At a glance he could tell that Sherlock was still actively working on the case. The living room was a mess. Sherlock never cleaned when a case was on. _"It interferes with my thinking time,_ " he would say.

 John cautiously stepped over stacks of files piled half-hazardly in the middle of the room along with an assortment of men's left boots in various sizes as he looked for Sherlock. He found the book that Greg had asked for on the mantle and slipped it into his pocket before walking over to knock hesitantly on Sherlock's bedroom door.

 He opened it and was immediately overcome with the smell of smoke. "What the hell is all this?" John said entering to see Sherlock sitting against the headboard of his bed smoking a hookah. He turned toward John and breathed out a huge cloud of smoke.

 "Oh John. I didn't hear you come in," Sherlock said taking another large sip which made the water bubble loudly in the small smoke filled room. "Have a sip, I've got plenty."

John picked up the hookah and looked into it. "What exactly do you have in this thing?" he asked, "This doesn't smell like tobacco."

Sherlock breathed out another cloud of smoke making John cough, and he leaned back against the headboard his eyes half-lidded.

John frowned, pulling the tube out of Sherlock's hand, he carried it out of Sherlock's room and into the kitchen. "Hey! I wasn't done with that yet," Sherlock objected as he stumbled out of bed entering the kitchen just in time to see John rinsing it all down the sink and engaging the garbage disposal function.

Sherlock swayed as he crossed the floor, putting a hand on the table to steady himself as he watched John who finished by tossing the it into the garbage bin. "Why are you here," Sherlock asked, "I thought that you were on your honeymoon."

"That was months ago," John said, "You've started smoking again. You know how bad for you it is."

"Smoking helps me think," Sherlock said, "It's a difficult case, and I'm going to need that book you have in your pocket. I'm not done with it yet."

"Lestrade asked me to get it," John said. "It's evidence."

"Exactly why I need to study it," Sherlock replied, "And why did Lestrade feel the need to contact you to get it? You're not my keeper anymore. You have your own life, remember?"

John stared into Sherlock's eyes. They were dazed by the drugs, but he could clearly see the hurt in them before exhaustion made his eyelids droop. John walked over and helped lower Sherlock down into a chair. Then his fingers reached under Sherlock's t-shirt feeling him up and down before Sherlock slowly swatted them away. "When was the last time you ate?" John asked, " I can feel your ribs."

Sherlock sat back crossing his arms over his chest. "You know I never eat on a case," he said, "Digesting slows me down. You don't seem to have missed any meals though. You've gained fifteen pounds since I last saw you."

"No I haven't," John objected.

"Yes you have. Mary must be a good cook. Either that or the two of you have been eating out." Sherlock turned his head to look at John before leaning against the table and placing his head on his hand.

"Sherlock," John said, "you look ready to fall out of that chair. You need to lie down." John reached his arm around Sherlock's waist then and walked him into the other room. Sherlock headed toward his bedroom door, but John turned him away. "Oh no you don't, " he said, "that place smells like an opium den." He deposited Sherlock on the couch, his head propped on the armrest, his two long legs stretched out, then he pulled out a flashlight which he shined into Sherlock's eyes.

"Good God John, too bright!" he cried pushing weakly against John's chest.

John grabbed his wrist, and stared down at his watch as he took Sherlock's pulse. "You've got to take more care of yourself," John said, "You're on the verge of collapse."

"Oh don't worry about me, John," Sherlock said, "The brain is working as good as ever, and that's all that I care about."

"But your body supports your brain," John said, "Your brain won't function if your body fails."

"Oh my body...I think that you've lost the right to talk about my body, John. You gave all that up, remember." John looked up at that, staring into Sherlock's eyes. Sherlock dropped his gaze and pulled his hand out of John's grasp before turning to face the back of the couch. " Go ahead and take the book if you want to," he said, "I've already memorized the relevant passages." Then Sherlock reached out an arm and lazily waved him away.

John walked over to his chair, and sat down. He pulled out the book and leafed through the pages as Sherlock pretended to ignore him.

"This book, what is it?" he asked, "it seems to be full of accounts. Numbers on every page, but it's not a check register." Sherlock's head slowly turned to stare at John who was turning pages back and forth as he examined the small book. Sherlock's pride gave way to curiosity and he turned to face John who was looking carefully at each page with a puzzled expression on his face. "Is this even English?" he said.

"Shorthand," Sherlock replied, It's a bomber's diary belonging to a one Jacob Carothers. killed last Tuesday, but not before he made one of the biggest bombs of his career. The amounts and prices of the materials are all there, but what is it for? Why did they kill him? Did he try to stop him? It's something big, I can feel it, but when and where? I try to figure it out but the solution eludes me."

"And so you turn to opium?" John chided.

"It lubricates the mind, helps the thoughts flow more freely," Sherlock replied.

"It's also highly addictive not to mention illegal. Where did you get it?"

"Trivia John trivia. You have what you came for. Why are you still here?"

"Do I need a reason to visit an old friend?" John asked.

Sherlock snorted. "So we are ' _old friends_ ' now are we? Perhaps we should go out to the club for a snifter of brandy and a game of billiards. Boring. I don't have time for this. I must figure out what they mean to blow up. It's got to be in London. But where?"

"Well, Guy Fawkes day is coming up, maybe it's the House of Lords," John said jokingly.

Sherlock sat up, "What did you say?"

"I just said that it's almost Guy Fawkes day."

"After that!"

"The House of Lords."

"Of course! Give me that book John!" Sherlock turned to a note covered page and pointed at some of the shorthand scribbles, "Do you see that John? Do you see it?"

"I can't read shorthand," John replied.

"It says undercroft. UNDERCROFT!"

"Yes...and."

"Don't you see? Didn't you study this in school? My God I am alone!" Sherlock yelled.

"I'm sorry," John said, "What exactly am I supposed to be remembering from my school days?"

Sherlock slammed the book closed and covered his eyes sighing in frustration. "In 1604 Guy Fawkes and a group of conspirators placed gunpowder in an undercroft under the house of Lords. It's the gunpowder plot all over again. John give me your phone, I have to call Lestrade!"

John fished his phone out of his pocket and handed it over. "I suggest that you shower and change clothes before you go anywhere. You reek of drugs."

"I change my mind," Sherlock said, "I'm glad you've come. I always think faster when you're around."

 

Less than an hour later, John and Sherlock were standing in a car park not far from the parliament building, a host of police cars following as Sherlock ran ahead toward the door that the assailant had just entered. The door opened again and the man reached out an arm, "Watch out!" John yelled leaping toward Sherlock and pushing him behind a column so that he narrowly avoided being shot.

The officers following them dropped behind whatever cover they could find, leaning over the hoods of cars with their guns leveled when an object flew toward them exploding and filling the room with a black smoke.

"There!" John cried pointing to a man who was running out of the door and toward an exit. The man jumped into the back of a black van which began to drive. John dropped to one knee in the roadway shooting out the tire and rolling out of the way as it passed to crash against the wall crushing a red mini. The back door of the van opened and several men piled out each carrying silver cases. They stood between them and the police.

"Come on!" Sherlock said grabbing John's arm and pulling him behind a white sedan as a small grenade sailed over their heads to explode between them and the door to the stairwell. The two of them crouched down, their behinds touching as they peered around either side of a concrete column. John began to giggle.

"What is it?" Sherlock asked.

"This," John said, "I didn't expect that just over an hour after entering your flat, I'd be in a face-off with a group of bombers carrying ten cases of high-grade plastic explosives outside of the parliament building, but knowing you, maybe I should have. Has it been this way the entire time that I was gone?"

"No, John," Sherlock said, "I haven't had anything near this interesting for a long time. It was deathly dull. You seem to be a sort of charm to bring trouble my way."

"Don't tell me that you're blaming this attack on me?" John said before pressing against Sherlock's back to avoid another gunshot. "Then again, this is like old-times," John said," You and me, backside to backside, trying to avoid getting killed."

"Backside to backside? I don't remember us trying this position before," Sherlock said, "But I'd be willing to experiment."

John chuckled "I don't suppose we could..." he said just as the two of them noticed the raised arm of the man who had somehow got behind them. He tossed an object toward them before leaping out of one of the open sides of the garage. It seemed to John as if the world was moving in slow motion as his eyes locked on the object rotating toward them in lazy circles.

Suddenly Sherlock pulled John back by his coat, tossing him behind a concrete barrier. Seconds before the explosion tore through the building surrounding John with light and deafening sound. The air was full of choking dust, and the roof creaked. John coughed.

The pillars on either side of John had been cracked by the explosion, but the concrete barrier had saved John. He looked down to find that he was riddled with small cuts and bruises from flying debris but he was otherwise unhurt. "I'm fine Sherlock, how are you do...Sherlock?" John looked around him. Sherlock was not there.

After climbing back over the barrier, John ran through the dust filled room, jumping over chunks of concrete as he searched for Sherlock. The dust and the wailing of car alarms reminded John of the battlefield. He crouched low, gun in his hand as he ran searching for him. He found his body at the bottom of a long ramp where it had been thrown. He put his gun in the back of his jeans and turned Sherlock to face upward almost fainting when he saw the blood that covered his face and head.

For a moment he was back at that scene at Bart's hospital looking at Sherlock's dead body. He had to remind himself that although that death had been faked, that Sherlock's current injuries were real. He blew out a breath and reached out to feel the pulse at Sherlock's neck trying not to think of the dampness that covered his fingertips. Sherlock had a pulse, but right now that pulse was spewing his blood across the dark floor.

A police car drove up beside him, and a young officer got out. John barked out orders. "Get back into that car and call for an ambulance now. Sherlock Holmes has been hurt!"

John pulled off his coat and unbuttoned his cuffs pulling his shirt over his head. He pressed it firmly against Sherlock's brow trying desperately to slow the bleeding long enough to get him to the hospital.

"Sherlock! Sherlock!" John called to his friend's unconscious body as Sherlock's image became fuzzy in his water-filled eyes. "Don't die. Damn you don't die on me now!"


	2. Touched

John sat in the lobby of the hospital looking down at the forms in his hands. He was covered from head to toe in grey-white concrete dust, his jacket zipped up high to hide the fact that he wasn't wearing a shirt. Even so, the lobby felt uncomfortably hot to him, and his head fell to his chin, the muscles of his neck unwilling to support it any longer.

The click of an umbrella tip striking the floor drew his eyes to a pair of highly-polished, pointy-toed, brogues facing him. The complex leatherwork sat below a pair of pinstriped trousers, a waistcoat with a silver chain, a red tie and a finely-cut black coat.

"Hello John," Mycroft Holmes said peering down his nose at him before reaching out and pulling the papers from his hand. He held them out to the side, and his assistant took them from him, bustling away to fill them out. "How is Sherlock?" he asked.

John prepared to stand, but Mycroft motioned for him to remain sitting as he lowered himself into a cracked plastic chair beside him. His fine clothes and stiff posture incredibly out of place in the dingy hospital waiting room.

"He's stable," John answered him, "Multiple lacerations to the face and neck, a broken arm, concussion. He's had a transfusion. As to his chance for recovery...it's too early to tell."

Mycroft placed the tips of his fingers on John's knee. "And you John," he said, "how are you? Have you seen a doctor yet?" John glanced from his knee to Mycroft's face, and Mycroft removed his hand.

As time passed John began to understand a little of Sherlock's aversion to his brother. Mycroft was a powerful man who was a little too used to using his power. One had to handle him like a live scorpion, carefully. Even so, Mycroft's concern for his brother never failed to touch John's heart. He slouched down in his chair. Wiping his eyes with the heels of his hands which only resulted in smearing the dust a little.

"Honestly John, you should get those cuts seen to. At least let me find you a change of clothes."

"Oh my," John said rising suddenly to his feet, "I haven't called Mary." The sudden change in position was a bit too much for John in the state that he was in, and the world went grey. The last thing that John saw before he passed out was Mycroft's arm snaking around his chest to hold him.

 

 

John awoke to the sound of water running. He was lying on his back in a darkened office. The thin, white sheet below him slid against the leather of the bench. His coat had been removed and his skin tingled in the cool, quiet air. After the heat of the lobby, and the suffocating dust of the garage, it felt heavenly. 

John sat up watching as a coatless Mycroft Holmes walked into view. He sat on the bench beside John who leaned back propping himself up with his hands. "Where are we?" John asked.

"Still at the hospital," he said, his molten voice full of concern, "A private office. The director is someone known to me. You fainted."

John looked closely at Mycroft. In the darkened room, he was little more than a silhouette edged by the glow of the harshly bright light spilling from the bathroom door. His vest was undone at the bottom, and the sleeves of his clean, white shirt had been rolled up to reveal his pale forearms.

Mycroft held in his hand a wet, white towel. He glanced at John's chest for a second before alighting on his eyes. John looked down to see that he was covered with scratches from the explosion. Mycroft reached out and touched the towel to John's chest, and John sighed with the warmth of it. When he pulled the cloth back, it was dotted with dried blood. Despite Mycroft's protestations of concern for his brother, John had never thought of him as the kind of man who knew how to care for others.

"Lie back," Mycroft said, his hand rising to rest on the muscles of John's shoulder. He looked into Mycroft's intense eyes realizing that this was the closest that he had ever been to the man. His legs butted up against the back of the man's trousers as Mycroft faced him,  pushing him gently down as he lay the wet cloth on John's chest. John relaxed and closed his eyes as he dabbed John's shoulders, and then began to rub his chests with slow strokes.

"You are a very brave man," Mycroft said, "Saving Sherlock's life...again."

"No you have it wrong," John said shaking his head, his eyes still closed, "He saved me. Threw me behind a barrier or else I'd be in that emergency room with him now."

"But before that, you saved him," Mycroft said, "pushed him out of the way of a bullet so my sources tell me. And let's not forget that your early care was instrumental in helping him to pull through. I'm touched by your constant loyalty and heroism. I owe you many thanks ...Captain John Watson."

John flinched a bit at the use of his title. He wasn't in the RAMC anymore, but he supposed that Mycroft must continue to think of him that way since that was the last Government-paid job he'd had.

"Oh Mary! I have to call her," John said trying to rise. A firm hand on his shoulder pushed him back down.

"It's already been handled," he said, "One of my people has called her. Told her about Sherlock's injuries, said that you were injured only superficially, and that you would be home in the morning."

John exhaled, letting his head roll back on the couch as he sighed. He could feel Mycroft's fingers tense on his shoulders before stroking his arm slowly. "You just lie still, and don't worry about a thing. Rest is the best cure for you now," he said and the soft wet strokes started again loosening John's muscles which had tensed from exhaustion, shock, and worry. It was relaxing to feel the damp towel rubbing across his skin, his body calming under Mycroft's firm touch.

"Turn over John so that I can towel your back," Mycroft said his voice deep and soothing. John began to turn, then Mycroft put out a hand, "Wait," he said, "let me loosen your clothing."

Mycroft slowly, carefully undid John's belt, pulling it slowly out through the loops. Then he opened the top button of John's trousers. When he started to move the zipper, John opened his eyes. Mycroft shushed him and turned him over onto his stomach. John relaxed down onto the bench one arm on either side of it, his head turned away from Mycroft who shifted his weight on the bench, as he leaned forward to wipe the base of John's neck.

John could feel the cool cloth rubbing across his back in large circles. At first it seemed that Mycroft used two hands, but over time he took one away. John cried out as the cloth rubbed against a deep scratch and Mycroft stopped. But then the rubbing began again, and John sank back into an almost slumber.

He could hear Mycroft's breathing deepen as he rubbed his back. Each stroke, each breath relaxed John more and more until he was on the edge of consciousness. John let out a deep, low moan, and Mycroft stopped suddenly. The bench shifted as his weight left it, and John could hear the sound of the bathroom door closing.

John was so relaxed he didn't feel able to move. Sometime later, John couldn't tell how long because he had dozed off, a hand touched his back before covering it gently with a sheet. He turned his head. "Oh Mycroft. Thank you for that. It was very thoughtful of you, cleaning my wounds yourself. Do you still have that damp cloth?"

Mycroft pressed his lips together in a strange expression. "No. I seem to have misplaced it," he said, "You rest. I'll send someone to get you as soon as we hear anything new about Sherlock." John nodded and fell asleep.


	3. The Good Husband

"John, John," Mary called waking him from sleep.

John opened his eyes and sat up. He felt stiff from sleeping on the hard bench despite Mycroft's massage. Mary looked at the cuts on his skin. "Oh my," she said, "what happened, John?"

Then John remembered and his face clouded with pain at the memory of the blood on Sherlock's face. His memory shifted to the body on the sidewalk at Barts, and then to the face of a young soldier in Afghanistan. One that he had been unable to save.

"John, John, it's okay, it's okay," Mary said rubbing his back. I've got a change of clothes for you. Put these on, and we can go home.

"No," John said, "not until I check on Sherlock."

"I think that you should see a doctor. You might have a concussion as well. Knowing you, you'd just ignore it and go on working."

"Mary, I have to see Sherlock."

"Of course you do."

"I need to see him, now!"

"John, calm down!" Mary demanded. John stared into her serious face listening as she said in a quiet voice, "He's stable. He has been transferred to a room in the critical care ward. We can go see him before we go home, but you are going to go into that bathroom and put on your shirt first. Do you understand me, John Watson?"

John nodded. He took the shirt, changed, and soon was sitting at Sherlock's side. Sherlock was still asleep. They had sedated him for surgery, and it would be several hours before he would awaken. They suggested that John go home and rest. He didn't want to go home, but when the doctors began to ask John to submit to an examination himself, he rose and walked out of the room. Mary led him to the ground floor and into a car that Mycroft had left behind to drive them home.

Later, as John sat on the couch in his apartment biting his nails, Lestrade came over to talk about the case. John could hardly concentrate, returning his questions with terse clipped answers. The bombing gang had been captured, all except for two: one who had suicided, and one who had escaped. "But we're on his trail. We'll catch him," Lestrade said before changing the subject. "So, how is Sherlock? Will he recover do you think?"

"Do I think..." John said imagining for a moment what would happen if he didn't recover. He closed his eyes.

John sat in a desert like the Afghan desert, but not. It was very cold. Darkness descended. A darkness without stars. He had lived without Sherlock before. He never wanted to again. He resolved at that moment that if one of them was to die, then he would be the first.

He opened his eyes to see Lestrade's concerned face. He was kneeling on the floor with a hand on John's arm. "Are you alright, mate?" he asked.

"I'm fine," John said.

"It's just, you didn't seem to hear me."

John laughed, "Who would have known that Sherlock's habits were contagious. I'm sorry, I guess... I was just worried about Sherlock. He's stable. That's all that they'll say for now."

"Well I'm sure he'll be fine," Lestrade said. "It takes more than a bomb to kill Sherlock Holmes. I've seen him in bad places before, and he always comes back."

"Let's hope so." Mary said walking into the room and sitting down on the couch beside John. She patted him on the knee.

"Well, I should to be going, " Lestrade said. "Good evening John, Mary."

"Let me show you out," Mary said rising to walk Greg to the door.

"He's acting a bit strange," Lestrade said. "Has he been seen by a doctor yet?"

"No," Mary said, "But I've got it covered."

 

That afternoon Sarah came over for a visit. She sat John down and gave him a full physical. She even brought an eye chart. When Mary showed her out, John glared across the room at her as he rebuttoned his shirt. "That was a dirty trick inviting Sarah over," he said.

"You wouldn't let them examine you at the hospital. I knew that Sarah was someone that you wouldn't refuse."

"I think that you just like to throw me for a loop sometimes. Show that you can get your way."

"John Watson, I would not have done it if it wasn't necessary. I don't like the idea of your old girlfriends running their hands all over your body, but you should know that your health and happiness is always my first priority." Mary tilted up her head, and John gave her a kiss and a smile that turned to a frown the moment that she walked away.

That evening, John was back at the hospital holding Sherlock's hand as he opened his eyes for the first time. "Sherlock, can you hear me?"

"John," Sherlock said weakly.

John smiled. "You're going to be alright," he said," I promise."

"Doctor Watson," the doctor on duty called, "We need to perform some tests now if it's alright."

John squeezed Sherlock's hand and stepped aside.

John returned home late that night. Their worst fears were over. Most brain functions were intact, and he was likely to recover, though he was not out of the woods yet. John hung up his coat and sat on the couch. Mary walked over and kissed him on the cheek.

"How's Sherlock?"

"Better, " John said. "He recognized me. That's a start."

"Sherlock could never forget you, John. Let me get you some dinner," She rose and started toward the kitchen.

"Mary I... I can't ... I'm not hungry," he called but she had already left the room.

 

She walked back in wearing a short robe and carrying two champagne glasses. She handed one to John. "Do you know what today it?" she said, "Today is the anniversary of the day that we first met."

Mary handed a glass to John. "Is it?" he said. "You know, I could possibly have a concussion. I shouldn't be drinking."

"You aren't drinking, that's apple juice," Mary said. "Mine is Champagne."

Mary straddled his lap and sat back onto his knees before touching her glass to his. "Happy anniversary," she said. Her robe fell open as she tilted the glass back to drink revealing a bra of sheer white lace. John glanced down.

"You've been worrying entirely too much. You need to be distracted. To take your mind off of things for a while, and I still haven't gone through all of my honeymoon trousseau."

"Who ever heard of a lingerie shower?" John said smiling as his hand undid the tie so that the robe fell to the floor.

"It's quite the custom in some parts."

"I'm not objecting," John said reaching his arms around either side of her narrow waist and pulling her forward as he bent back his head to kiss her on the lips. Mary reached down and began unbuttoning the buttons of his shirt.

John ran the back of his hand down her smooth white arm before lifting it over her head as he kissed the side of her chest. He inhaled the scent of perfume and her own sweet musk before running his hands slowly down her back.

Mary was a petite perfectly formed figure of a woman. John had thought so from the first time that he had seen her. John was not a large man. Something that was accentuated whenever he stood beside Sherlock, but he was big compared to Mary.

The fact that he could lift her over his head never failed to turn him on. He lifted Mary now sliding her down as his mouth examined her body. He kissed the inside of her thigh, the slight bulge below her belly button, the gap between her breasts, her chin, her mouth.

She lifted her arms high and he kissed the skin beside her breast, at the base of her underarm, on her rounded forearm and inside her elbow. Mary curled up on his lap undoing the back of her bra as she kissed his lips. She closed her eyes and crossed her arms behind his neck.

Then John stood lifting her by putting his arms under her thighs and feet. She clung to him as he carried her into the bedroom. Tossing her down on the bed and bouncing beside her. Now as always the sight of Mary's perfectly round breasts compelled John to cover them with his hands. Mary laughed, her voice ringing off of the bare walls.

John kissed the skin below her breasts and then blew into her bellybutton which made her laugh again. He slowly undressed her remarking loudly on how perfect each part of her was as he kissed it.

Mary pulled off John's shirt but when she tried to remove his trousers he stopped her, reaching his hand down to caress her in a way that made her arch away from him, crying out as she undulated on the bed. He worked her over with his hand and his mouth forcing out cries and prayers and moans of passion. Mary made the most amazing sounds, and it was a joy to watch her. Her face grew more and more angelic in her pleasure, and her hair surrounded her like a halo of gold.

John had not been idle in these months of married life. He had studied in precise detail what made Mary happy, using his considerable medical skill to document each part of her. Even so, there was still quite a lot of research left to do.

Eventually, she grabbed his hand to stop him, nipping at his wrists before curling on her side. She pulled John over to spoon beside her which he did until he heard her quiet snores, then he rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling seeing again those closed eyes, and blood in that dark curly hair.


	4. Homecoming

Mrs Hudson was waiting with the door open when the cab pulled up to 221B Baker Street. John got out and helped the injured Sherlock out of the car, half-carrying him up to his flat while Mary carried a wheelchair into the entryway stashing it under the stairs.

"Are you sure that you boys don't want to stay over in my flat?" Mrs Hudson asked. "I'd be happy to let Sherlock sleep on the couch just to save you those stairs."

"No thank you, Mrs Hudson," John said. "We'll manage."

Mary brought in John's things as John carried Sherlock into the flat and sat him in his chair. Sherlock was a mess. A bandage covered his head completely obscuring his left eye. His other eye was still a bit puffy, the skin around it red. The hair that did stick out from under the bandage had been shorn, and his left arm was in a plaster cast.

"I'll be just a minute," Mary called down to the cabbie as she walked over to give John a hug. "Now I'll call you from the airport just to tell you that I caught the flight. Mrs Hudson has already stocked the refrigerator with your favorite foods. When I get there, I'll send a message." She kissed John sweetly. "Now, let me get out of your hair, so you boys have time to get reacquainted. I'll miss you."

"I'll miss you too. Have fun!" John said. Mary walked toward the door, then she turned back.

"You take care of Sherlock, and don't forget to get out from time to time. The sick bed can get you down if you never take a break." She pushed her purse higher on her shoulder and then walked back to give John one last hug.

"I'll be fine. Love you," John said smiling down at her.

"Love you too," Mary said and rubbed noses with him before rushing down the stairs.

If Sherlock could have, he would have rolled his eyes. As it was, he looked away pointedly.

"I'll see her out, shall I? You boys settle in," Mrs Hudson said closing the door as she left the flat.

"Boys," Sherlock said, "Why do we suddenly become children simply because I'm injured."

"It's just their mothering impulse showing. Don't take offense, Sherlock."

"I had enough of that mothering nonsense at the hospital. Thank goodness we're home again!"

"Yes, thank goodness," John replied snidely, "They were about to throw you out whether it killed you or not. Did you have to be so offensive to the staff?"

"The hospital was tedious. Boring people, boring problems. What is it to me if the doctor was having an affair with two of his nurses, and the janitor was stealing silver nitride for his photography projects. There was nothing of interest to do there. My mind was going numb."

"Well we're back home now, so you can be bored without annoying anyone."

"Are you saying that I don't annoy you anymore?"

"You annoy me, but I'm used to it," John said reaching into the refrigerator before returning with a bottle of beer.

"Would you like some beer, Sherlock?"

"No." 

"Good because you can't have it anyway," John said chuckling to himself. "I could make you some tea if you'd like."

"No." 

"Then what can I get you?"

"Some silence. I have to think."

"About what?" 

"About how I can work like this when I can't walk and I can't see and I can't think."

"You can't think? Are you still experiencing memory loss?"

Sherlock was silent for a few moments, "Yes, from time to time. There are moments when I can't remember where I am. It is ...extremely disorienting and disturbing."

"Don't worry Sherlock," John said. "Now that you are back in familiar surroundings, things should be better."

Sherlock snorted. "So, how long will Mary be away?" 

"Two weeks. A trip to Italy with her college classmates. She wasn't going to go because ...newlyweds and all, but with me taking care of you, she decided to."

"You should have gone with her, John. You don't want to be stuck with an invalid. Mycroft can hire a nurse to take care of me. He has offered."

"Don't be ridiculous, Sherlock. You'd have sent her packing in less than a week. Beside, I like your company. It's good to spend some time with you again."

"You don't have to lie, John. I know this is just your misguided sense of loyalty."

"Call it what you will. I'm staying," John replied taking another sip.

"Why are you so ...chipper?" Sherlock asked.

"Why are you so dour?" 

"Concussion, John. Irritability is one of the symptoms."

"And how is that any different from how you normally act?" John said smiling. "Now Sherlock, you know that I wouldn't leave you to someone else's care. I'll be here to take care of you until you recover."

"Oh," Sherlock said.

"The correct response is _'thank you'._ " 

Sherlock leaned his lips against his fingertips. Then he said very quietly, "Thank You."

"You're welcome!" John smiled as he sat back in his chair and opened the paper.

"After you left," Sherlock said softly, "I didn't think that we would ever sit like this again. I was afraid that you would be gone forever."

"Well, that just shows how stupid you are." 

"I see," Sherlock said, "although not very well at the moment." John laughed, and Sherlock laughed and they were home again.

 

With John in charge, the days had a regimental regularity to them. Sherlock was woken each morning, taken to the bathroom, and dressed in his best dressing gown. Mrs Hudson brought up breakfast even though she wasn't their housekeeper. John read the newspaper to Sherlock. Then a bath. Some clothes, and downstairs for a roll around the neighborhood in his wheelchair. On days when Sherlock was feeling bad, they'd stay in. Molly was a frequent visitor stopping by after work to spend a few moments, ' _cheering Sherlock_ ' as she called it.

After a week, the doctor came by and removed the bandage from Sherlock's eye. He shined a light in it. But Sherlock could not see it. The vision in his other eye was still very poor, and his headaches and memory loss continued.

"Progress may be a bit slower than we had hoped, but it is a wonder that you survived that blast at all," The doctor said to a discouraged Sherlock. "We can't expect miracles. The only cure for this is time. You must rest and give your body a chance to heal."

That evening Sherlock sat up with John drinking beer and talking happily about old cases. Then John put Sherlock to bed and went to sleep on the couch as his old room was too far away.

He was wakened by the sound of ammunition rounds falling loudly from the table to the ground. When John opened his eyes, he saw Sherlock kneeling on the floor with the muzzle of a gun inside his mouth.


	5. Understanding

They say that in combat sometimes everything would seem to freeze. A moment of complete clarity when a person could see everything around them and have time to make a decision that would save a life. Such a moment happened to John now.

John leapt off of the couch pushing against it hard with his feet to give him speed. He picked up the pillow from the chair and tossed it to where Sherlock knelt, knocking the gun from his hand. Then he fell onto Sherlock reaching across the floor to snatch up the gun, unloading it in the same moment. He tossed the gun in one direction and the ammunition in another and sat panting on top of Sherlock's supine body.

"What exactly do you think you are doing!" John yelled. He grabbed Sherlock by the shoulder shaking him back and forth before he realized the danger to his head and pulled him into an embrace instead.

Sherlock let himself be handled like a doll. He had no expression on his face. "John," he said softly, "Let me go. Just let me do it."

John glared at Sherlock, anger in his eyes. "Let you do what?" he said in a voice that held knives.

"Die," Sherlock said, "I can't see. I can't think. I may never recover fully. I may never be able to work again. Give me the gun and let me kill myself."

John sat back on his heels his lips contorted with anger. Sherlock tried to crawl toward the gun, but John stopped him with a slap that sent him reeling back away from it.

"You bastard!" John yelled, "You selfish bastard! What do you think you are doing trying to kill yourself? How dare you put me through this again? I am not going to cry over your body a second time!"

John sat back on his heels breathing heavily. He covered his eyes. Then he jumped up and grabbed the gun and ammunition and ran out of the apartment.

Sherlock lay on the floor staring up at the ceiling. He heard the sound of John's feet on the stairs. Then he heard them return. "Where did you go?" Sherlock asked.

"None of your business where I went or what I was doing. We are getting you back to bed." John put his arms under Sherlock's armpits and dragged him back into the bedroom. He tossed Sherlock onto the bed and then began searching around the room.

"What are you looking for?" Sherlock asked calmly.

"The wooden box. The case of things that Kate had you buy. Where is it?" John asked.

"What do you want? The whip?"

"No, I'm trying to find straps to tie you down."

"You don't have to tie me down, John."

"Then what am I supposed to do? What do I do when you have obviously gone out of your mind? What were you thinking Sherlock? How could you even consider... Oh God! What if I hadn't woken up in time?" John began to shake.

Sherlock looked at him concerned, "John, calm down. It's fine. It's all fine now."

"No it's not! It's definitely NOT fine Sherlock! I just stopped you from...Jesus! What were you thinking?" John paced around the room agitated. "Sherlock. What could have possibly possessed you to want to kill yourself? Talk to me. Explain it to me, because I need to understand this."

"John. I didn't want to hurt you."

"Well you have a strange way of showing it!"

"I...It's just. What kind of a detective am I now? How can a blind detective detect anything? I can't see, John. And these headaches. My memory, my mind is not working. My Mind Palace is dark, John! Like a city after a volcano has covered it in lava, entire areas of my mind are unreachable. My thoughts don't connect as they should. How can I work with entire portions of me missing? I can not. I will not let myself be ... so much less than I was."

"The Doctor said that this would be temporary."

"No John. He said that it MIGHT be temporary. _Might_ , which means that it might not. My eyesight should have returned by now, but it has not. Is this not a sign that the damage is permanent?"

"Bodies don't work that way, Sherlock. You aren't a machine. You can't be predicted so easily."

"Yet some things can be deduced given enough evidence, and even with my reasoning power as limited as it is now, I can see that I will never again be the man that I was. I am damaged, broken, and no amount of wishful thinking will make me better."

"Time will make you better."

"You don't know that," Sherlock said.

"You don't know that it is not true," John replied. "Explain to me why you don't think that it is worth waiting to find out?"

"I can't think, and if I can't think then I can't work. All that matters is the work! Without it, I have nothing."

John shook his head violently. "No. No. That's not all that you have."

"Then what do I have?"

"You have me!"

Sherlock stared at John and frowned. "You know that's not true."

Silence fell in the room, "Is this about me, Sherlock? Is this about you and me?"

"No."

"Then tell me. Tell me something that I can understand. I need to hear it Sherlock. Tell me why you did this."

Sherlock pulled himself up in the bed with difficulty so that he was sitting against the headboard. He took a large breath while John crossed his arms waiting for him to continue.

"I know what people think of me, John. They think that I'm arrogant, unlovable, barely tolerable, but my mind sets me apart. It makes me worth something because I can think and reason. I am above the common man. I am a man apart. With my body, my eyes and my brain, I solve crimes and my existence is worthwhile.

"But I'm barely tolerable at the best of times. What good am I without my brain? What good am I if I am unable to reason?

"Solving crimes is the only thing of value that I have to contribute. Without my genius, who would ever care about me, care for me. No one. Nor should they. I am a burden. a dead weight. A blight on society.

"We can sit here and ignore the problem. You can waste your days, your years, trying to convince yourself that I will be as I was, but in the end, I will only cause you grief. Believe me. This is the best way."

John slapped his hands against the headboard on either side of Sherlock's head making him jump. "Since when is killing yourself _the best way_? "There are times, Sherlock, when I hate you. I hate how you can do these things to yourself so casually. Hurt and abuse yourself. Take cocaine, smoke, as if you are willing yourself to die. I hate how you claim to see so much, but totally ignore the evidence that your friends love you for who you are, not for what you do. Sometimes we love you in spite of what you do."

John dropped his head speaking in a low, stressed voice. "What you did today, what you tried to do. It makes me so mad! How could you do that? Why did you try to leave me? How could you do that to me? How could you do that to Mary?"

Sherlock flinched pulling away from John. "To Mary?" Sherlock asked surprised. "I must be losing my ability to reason, because I have no idea what you mean? How could my death hurt Mary?"

"Because if you died," John began, "If you ...blew your brains out on the floor like you tried to do today. How could I stop myself from taking that gun and following you into death? And if I did that what would happen to Mary? You tell me that. What would happen to Mary with me gone?"

"I don't understand you," Sherlock said. "You talk about following me in death and then you talk about your wife who you left me for."

"Oh Christ, Sherlock! You understand nothing."

"What is it that you think I don't understand?

"You don't understand what you mean to me. You don't understand how much I love you. How can you be so smart and not know that?"

Sherlock turned his head so that he could see John out of his one good eye. "I didn't know."

"Didn't you? Couldn't you tell by how hard it was for me to leave you?"

"But you did leave me." 

"You left me first! For some iron miner in Sheffield."

"But John that was just..." 

"What? A case? I can't take being abandoned, Sherlock."

"You? I was the one abandoned! You left me here alone."

"I was just across town. I waited...I waited for you to call."

"You weren't here."

"My flat is hardly any distance..." John began.

"Distance is one thing. Marriage is another," Sherlock said with pain in his voice. "Why did you marry Mary?"

"Because of all the women that I have dated, she was the only one who would let me love you. Did you never think it odd for a man married less than six months to move back in with his old roommate? I can do it because Mary is an exceptional woman and she understands me. She knows what is in my heart."

"And what is in your heart, John?"

"You."

Sherlock stared into John's earnest, tear stained face and said, "If I was in your heart, then you would have stayed."

John doubled up onto the bed until his forehead touched the sheet. "Ever since I've known for sure that I loved you, living with you has been so hard for me. You hurt me so casually. You discard me, disbelieve me, distrust me, and now...It hurts to be close to you.

"I wish that you could see the claw marks that you've made on my heart. How your words and actions tear me to pieces. You watched me at your grave trying to be brave, and you totally missed how badly I was coping, how much I needed you.

"Mary helped me then and she helps me now, and I help her. I love her, but it's not the same kind of love that I feel for you. I despair ever having a relationship with you, Sherlock, because you hate yourself. How can someone who hates himself so much ever love another. I thought that there was hope for us, but I don't know. I couldn't take your death, Sherlock, not again, not and stay sane. Kill yourself and you kill me as surely as if you put the bullet in my brain yourself."

"I don't understand," Sherlock said. "Are you confessing love to me?"

"I did before. Did you think that I was lying?"

"People do, in the heat of passion. During sex they call out to gods and make false promises, but it all passes."

"Then listen to me now," John said. "I love you, Sherlock."

Sherlock shook his head. "I don't believe you," he said. "You are a doctor. This is some kind of trick to keep me calm until you can get me to the hospital to shoot me up with antidepressants. I've looked in the mirror. I am a damaged man, with a bad eye and a worse eye, scarred, my bones broken, and my brain rattled, a wreck of a man. Look at me. Honestly look at me, and tell me what you see."

John stared right into his swollen, damaged face and said, "You're beautiful."

Sherlock closed his eye and collapsed forward as John wrapped his arms around him. He wrapped his one good arm around John shuddering as John stroked his neck and back rocking him backward and forward.

"I'm sorry Sherlock. I'm sorry that I never told you before. I suppose that my pride got in the way. My anger. When you refused to come to the wedding, my best friend and you let me stand up with Mike Stamford, I was upset. I let it stand between us. But I'm here now. I'm here. Tell me what you need and I'll do it. Anything. Sherlock, what do you want?" John asked.

"Just hold me and don't let me go", Sherlock said.

John turned himself so that he sat against the headboard of the bed. He pulled Sherlock to his chest kissing what was left of his tattered curls and rocking him back and forth as he whispered into his ear. "I'm here. I'm here, Sherlock, and I love you."


	6. Enamored

Like dandelion down, John's lips brush softly against Sherlock's cheek as he sits him up in the bed. The tip of his nose nudges the edge of the bandage wrapped around Sherlock's head. His left hand wraps around Sherlock's back, and his other strokes the side of his thigh, pushing into the hollow space under Sherlock's knees as he leans across pulling the taller man to the edge of the bed. His biceps tighten as he lifts him. He carries him a few steps carefully lowering him into the wheelchair. He starts to stand, but Sherlock reaches out, placing a hand against the back of his neck and caressing his rough cut hair. John looks at him and their vision locks, blue eye staring into blue until the gravity is too strong and their lips meet in a soft pair of kisses that serve to say good morning.

John wheels Sherlock out of the bedroom and into the kitchen where breakfast is waiting for him. Sherlock ignores the food looking wistfully at John instead.

"Eat, Sherlock," John says and Sherlock turns to the plate eating a bite of egg to please him before reaching out and taking John's toast from him. He bites, placing his teeth over the marks that John has made before looking up into John's slanted smile.

"You can do better than that," he says and offers Sherlock a glass of milk. Sherlock lifts his head to drink and downs half of the glass before proudly placing it down on the table. John looks at his milk mustache and laughs.

"What?" Sherlock asks rubbing his chin as John leans over to lick the mustache off of the top of his lips. Sherlock angles up his face and meets John's lips with his own in a kiss as a different kind of hunger begins to well inside him.

Sherlock grabs the cloth of John's collar and pulls him down in order to keep John's lips near his own. John laughs placing his hand over Sherlock's and disengaging it as he rises to unlock the wheelchair and turn it toward himself carefully relocking the wheels before lowering himself down on his knees and leaning forward.

Sherlock kicks aside the footrests pulling John closer with his ankles, then he wraps his legs around John pulling him close with his heels. John reaches his hands around Sherlock's waist, and Sherlock arches his back welcoming John's embrace as his chest abuts against his lover. Sherlock's hands reach down pulling John's shirt out of his trousers and his long fingers wriggle up the sensitive skin on the side of his abdomen. John leans forward and puts an open mouth against Sherlock's pale neck causing Sherlock to inhale sharply and toss back his head.

Sherlock's hands slide across John's chest trapped against his body by the buttons of John's shirt. His middle fingers caress the tips of John's nipples making him shudder. John lifts his head, positioning Sherlock's face with his hand as he moves in to kiss his mouth. John pulls away and stares at Sherlock's lips for a second before going in deeper. Sherlock relaxes into the kiss accepting everything that John will give him and wanting more. From his one unbandaged eye, John looks fuzzy, but he would at this distance anyway. The sinuous motion of his jaw is extremely erotic to Sherlock who pushes forward against John with each grasping kiss.

John cups his tongue inside of Sherlock's mouth pulling Sherlock's tongue into his own mouth and sucking on it. It tastes of milk. He pulls away from Sherlock and takes a big breath before rising to his feet and turning the chair back to the table.

"We should finish this food while it is still warm," he says to a disappointed Sherlock. Don't worry, the day is long enough for everything that we want to do.

After breakfast, John transfers Sherlock into his chair and gives him him medicine.

"Lift up your tongue," he says after Sherlock takes them.

"John, you don't honestly believe that I'm juvenile enough to hide my pills under my tongue do you?"

"Yes, now do it!"

Sherlock lifts his tongue and then sticks it out at John who laughs at him before sitting in his own chair. "Now some memory questions," he says, "what is the second closest planet to the sun."

"John don't bother me with questions that are so obviously trivial," Sherlock says.

"Alright then," John says, "What is the atomic weight of Oxygen?"

"15.999 ."

"and Nitrogen?"

"14.0067 ."

"And hydrogen."

"John please?"

"Then Sodium...to nine digits."

"22.989769282 the last digit falls within experimental error."

"Long term memory is fine then. How about Short term memory, what did we eat yesterday?"

"I don't know. Ask me something important."

"Important like what?

"Like how many times I've kissed you this morning?"

"How many?"

"Twenty nine, although some of them may not have fully disengaged. It may be an overestimate."

"You count our kisses?

"Shouldn't I?"

"Well...."

"Then change my answer to, ' _not enough_ '."

John laughs rising from his chair to lean over and kiss him again. "Now it's an even thirty." he says before going to start Sherlock's bath.

 

The days bleed into each other, overlapping in their similarities, intimate as a second honeymoon. Sherlock's broken arm made it hard for him to clean himself, so John climbed into the bath with him. John sat with his back to the wall, Sherlock's back snuggled against his chest. His plastic-wrapped cast hanging out as John reached around him to clean his chest and legs. Sherlock would close his eyes and lean his head on John's shoulder as John rubbed up against his back, his hands lathering and clasping Sherlock's chest. Afterward, he would rub Sherlock's back clean with a cloth before draining the tub and lifting him out,wrapping him up in a warm towel.

Then John would carry Sherlock back to the bedroom, and most of the time he would put on his robe and pull out clothes for Sherlock to wear before going upstairs to dress himself, but sometimes he would just fall on the bed beside Sherlock and kiss him until he forgot to count them.

Time had no meaning for them then. When they had eaten and dressed, John would carry Sherlock's wheelchair down the stairs, coming back for Sherlock and wheeling him outside. They would roam up and down the streets for hours. Sometimes it was light when they went out, sometimes it was dark, they didn't care. Once, they went out just as Mrs Hudson was going to the market to buy groceries. They walked with her for a block or two before John said that he had left something behind. He whirled Sherlock's chair around taking him back to the hallway of 221B, ripping open his coat, and undoing his shirt and trousers for a vigorous bout of wheelchair sex. John fell onto Sherlock when the lock came loose forcing the chair back against the step. Sherlock locked it, then grabbed John's hips pulling him forward and making him cry out. Later they heard the key in the lock, and John quickly pulled away zipping up his pants while Sherlock wiped his mouth with his sleeve. His closed coat hid a multitude of sins.

John offered to help Mrs Hudson with her groceries, but she refused his help saying that she would need to spray the entryway with air freshener because it smelled, " _like a couple of dogs rutting_ ".

Once she was inside, John lifted Sherlock onto his shoulder, kicked the chair into the corner and carried Sherlock up the stairs to lay him out on the carpet before continuing what they had started in a slow determined fashion.

Every evening John would give Sherlock a "therapy" session. Because he had objected to the way he looked, John sat him on a chair before a mirror pointing out each feature and telling him how beautiful it was. Sherlock preened under the scrutiny until his vanity had bounced back to its former extreme levels.

"I don't suppose we need to do that exercise anymore," John had said once, but Sherlock had replied. "No, It's fine."

Sherlock's poor eyesight bothered him, so John would hold objects just out of sight and ask him to deduce what the were simply from the sound. He was incredibly accurate. John was astonished until Sherlock named three things that John had only thought about picking up. He realized then that Sherlock had been deducing him instead.

When Sherlock lamented that he could not see John's beautiful body well. John leveled the playing field by tying a scarf around his own eyes. He held Sherlock's hand up to his face. "Feel it?" he asked, "Now you see better than I do. We'll just have to use our other senses." So they did.

John and Sherlock would wrap themselves tightly around each other, discovering everything that they could. John had a natural musk that was enticing and manly. Sherlock loved the taste of his skin, especially the bend of his right elbow, and the inside of his thighs. John loved the pressure of Sherlock's fingers grasping his shoulders and forearms. He also loved the feel of his slender back when it was beaded all over with tiny jewels of sweat.

The doctor came by again and examined Sherlock. He was improving slowly. He removed the bandage from his head revealing an uneven crop of hair and a scar held closed by steri-strips. John took out his scissors and cut Sherlock's hair very short so that it was even. The doctor had given Sherlock an eye patch to wear until his eye was stronger. John said that he looked like a pirate.

The term immensely pleased Sherlock who would grin toothily before attempting to pillage John of any booty he had. The ferocity of their sex afterward was so great that John got into the habit of saying random pirate phrases just to turn Sherlock on. He would walk his fingers across Sherlock's belly and ask him if he should "walk the plank," or in the midst of a session of serious passion, he would yell out "shiver me timbers!" making Sherlock laugh so hard that he rolled off of the bed in stitches.

Every moment they spent together they felt a sense of grace. As if they were the luckiest people alive to be this loved and to be this happy. They stared at each other with smiles on the edges of their lips unwilling to leave each other's sight even for a minute. Wanting to spend every moment of this time together, because they both knew that such intense joy couldn't last forever.

 

One night when they sat wrapped around each other watching telly, both sitting in John's chair. The phone rang. John wormed his way out from under Sherlock and answered it.

"Hello John!" Mary cried over the phone, static interrupting her connection. "I'm in Paris! My flight is in an hour, and then I'll be home. Sorry I didn't call you this last week. But we had such an exciting time. I have so much to tell you! See you at the airport. Love you."

"Love you too, Mary," John said before closing the connection. He walked across the room and sat down in Sherlock's chair. Sherlock looked across at him. The first frown in over a week began to touch the sides of his lips. "What are you going to do?" Sherlock asked with the smallest crack in the back of his throat. John put his hands together unconsciously mirroring Sherlock's pose as he thought. He didn't answer.


	7. Altogether

"Our flat is small and we don't have a guest room," Mary said.

"I know, but he hasn't recovered yet. He can't see properly. He can't walk," John replied.

"The hospital could better care for someone with his injuries."

"It's almost Christmas, and he's my best friend."

"He's got psychological problems. A suicide attempt is no laughing matter."

"I know, that's why I'm the only one who can care for him properly.

"You do understand, John, that this is difficult."

"You won't have to lift a finger. I'll take care of everything that he needs."

"That's not what I meant. I meant you re-initiating a sexual relationship with him. Despite my mild nature, I am not without jealousy, John Watson."

"I can't...leave him behind. I'm going to have to call you on this one, Mary. You promised me that you would never deny me in a matter of love."

"And you promised to care for me for the rest of my days."

"I know, and I will, but Mary... this is a matter of Love."

"You do know, John, that if you had killed yourself, I would have cursed you and sown your grave with salt. You do know that don't you?"

A slow smile spread across John's face, "Thank you, Mary. You are incomparable."

"Before you get too excited, I must tell you that this is my house and while in my house Sherlock must follow my rules."

"Of course, name it."

"He stays just until he recovers."

"Of course,"

"And although you may call me a prude, I don't want to see any overt signs of affection. No kissing, no holding hands, no nothing. "

"I think that we can accept that for the time being."

"And let me make something perfectly clear. I know that you fancy that giant of a man, but I don't. So before you get any ideas in your head there is no possibility of a threesome between the two of you and me. Not now. Not ever. So don't even imagine it. You understand."

"Yes, okay. I got it."

"Then go and get him, I've got unpacking to do. And don't forget to bring his medicines."

"Will do. Thank you," John said and kissed Mary's cheek before grabbing his coat and rushing out of the door.

  


John walked down the street, lifting his collar to the frosty air as he remembered his parting with Sherlock the night before.

When John had said that he was leaving to take Mary home, and that he would be back in the morning, Sherlock had cried. He tried to hide it from John, turning silently away, but when John touched his cheek to kiss him, he saw the trail of tears and almost lost his nerve.

"Just one minute more," Sherlock said, "please."

John cupped his hand to Sherlock's cheek and kissed him promising him that he would be back, that it was only a few hours. Despite his words, it was obvious, that Sherlock did not believe that he would ever return.

John held Sherlock's hands, looked into his eye (blue with veins of red) and said, "Sherlock, my love, I will come for you. I will tell Mary that you are too sick to live alone, and you can live with me in our flat."

"But I don't want to live with Mary," Sherlock blubbered.

"Please Sherlock, please wait for me. I will come back for you. I promise," John said on his knees. Sherlock nodded and John had left him, but only after giving Mrs Hudson strict instructions to watch him carefully because in this half-well state Sherlock might accidentally do himself some harm.

John had spent a sleepless night talking to his wife, while worrying about Sherlock. As he stood on the tube, he wondered if he had hidden the gun well enough in the flowerpot outside of the window of 221C, or would he come back to find the horrifying scene that he dreaded? The one where Sherlock's body lay strewn on the floor, dead.

The chill air invigorated John as he climbed the steps to the street. He smiled like a young man on his way to meet his lover. He felt like a school boy in the first flush of love. He felt ecstatic, reckless. He longed to see Sherlock again, to touch him, to kiss him. He knew that it was madness to have both Sherlock and Mary together in the same flat, but he had to have him. He needed to be with him, now.

John ran up the steps of 221B Baker street two at a time. Sherlock was waiting for him. He had been watching out of the window so long, that his hands were chill from touching the glass. John warmed them in his own and then kissed Sherlock who closed his eyes.

"I'd do anything to be with you," Sherlock confessed, "I'll even tolerate Mary's company."

"Mary is actually quite a nice person," John said.

Sherlock snorted.

  


John washed and dressed and wrapped Sherlock up for the trip, telling him Mary's conditions for their stay. He seemed unusually docile, and made no objections.

Later, after saying goodbye to Mrs Hudson who promised to bring a few things to their place the next day, they were out on the street. Sherlock bundled up in his scarf and that hat that he hated. ("But you've got to keep warm!" John had said smiling as he placed it on his head.) John had a pack on his back containing Sherlock's medicine and essential supplies.

They had decided to walk part of the way, to give themselves some time together. The evening had already come upon them. John wheeled Sherlock through back streets and alleys to give them privacy. In the dark shadow of a bridge John bent down and kissed Sherlock deeply. He wheeled him out then and they looked up at the stars, still visible despite the London city lights They were beautiful.

"Make a wish," John said.

"A wish?" Sherlock asked curiously.

"It's a tradition. I've already made mine."

"What is it?"

"If I tell you, then it won't come true."

"Sometimes you spout the most obvious rubbish, John."

"I know," John said laughing as he held Sherlock's gloved hand.

"Stars can't grant wishes," Sherlock said, "They are only balls of ionized gas."

"So you did read that Astronomy book that I bought you."

"There was nothing else to do. I was so bored when you were away," Sherlock replied as John wheeled him on.

  


When they entered John's flat, Mary welcomed them in. She had made a sort of cave for Sherlock in the corner of the room. It was something that John would never have thought of, but Mary had taken care of preschoolers.

She had pushed the couch over near the wall. Set an end table next to it, and hung a sheet as a curtain for privacy. Now it was tied open, but Sherlock could easily close it if he needed to. She had made up the couch as a bed for Sherlock with sheets, a blanket, and two fluffy pillows.

John dropped the bag on the end table.

"Dinner will be ready in about thirty minutes," Mary said as she walked into the kitchen.

John helped Sherlock onto the couch folding the chair, and putting it in the closet. Then he walked over to the couch and took away one of the pillows.

"Sherlock doesn't like his bed too soft," he said.

"Well, you fix it like you want it," Mary said.

"Let me just test this out," Sherlock said pulling the cord so that the curtain fell obscuring them, Then he grabbed John's collar and pulled him down forcing their lips together. Sherlock and John kissed passionately and awkwardly as Sherlock tried to pull John down to the couch, and John tried to stay up.

John pulled away, "Sherlock!" he whispered, "Mary's rules...I told you..."

"Yes," Sherlock replied, "She said that she didn't want to SEE any overt signs of affection. Right now, she doesn't see a thing."

Sherlock put his hand on John's crotch and got an immediate reaction. He had already mastered the art of undoing John's clothes one-handed. John tried to stop him but Sherlock nipped at his fingers. Then his mouth nipped something else and John cried out despite himself.

"What was that, John?" Mary asked from the kitchen, "did you hurt yourself?"

"I'm fine." John said, " I just jabbed myself with something sharp." John hit Sherlock with the pillow, but he held up his hand, and soon all John could do is hold the pillow against his mouth as Sherlock licked and nipped him so that he thought that he might explode. John clenched his buttocks, biting the pillow to muffle his moans as Sherlock did things to him that he had never imagined. He fell forward, holding the back of the couch with one hand as Sherlock undulated under him.

"I hope that you like carrots," Mary said, " There was a really good sale, so I'm making some candied ones."

John stifled a scream as he came suddenly. Sherlock gripped his hips tightly and swallowed all of the evidence. Drying him with the edge of the sheet and refastening his belt just as Mary entered the room to tell them that dinner was ready.

John reached over to pull the sheet aside. He used tying up the curtain as an excuse to try to catch his breath.

"Are you hungry?" Mary asked Sherlock.

"No, I've already eaten," Sherlock said, "but I may want a little dessert. John, can you help me into the bathroom so that I can wash my hands?" Sherlock said with a twinkle in his eye.

John glanced from Sherlock to Mary.

Maybe he had taken on a bit more than he could chew.


	8. Johnny Cake

The next morning John woke early to make Mary's coffee. He looked in on Sherlock who was asleep on the couch. It was a beautiful thing to see him sleep. Sherlock rarely slept, especially when he was on a case, but since the accident, he was sleeping much more soundly. John bent over to kiss his cheek, and Sherlock's eyes fluttered open. He put out a hand and touched John's neck pulling him in for a kiss. Then he dropped his hand and closed his eyes.

John took a shower and dressed. He started to make breakfast. Mary wandered in wearing a robe and fuzzy slippers. She glanced over at Sherlock through sleepy eyes and sat down at the kitchen table. John placed a mug of coffee before her, and she drank.

"Good Morning John," she said blinking heavily.

"Good Morning Mary. Did you sleep well?" he asked as he sat down across from her with his own mug?

"I had some strange dreams," she said.

"Really, what were they like?"

Mary looked up at him, "Strange," she said, "I can't describe it all, but there was a giant black bear and you were dangled over a pit of boiling chocolate, and I had to save you or eat you or something. It made sense at the time. Anyway, so much for that. Long day today. Pam called last night. Little Willie will be coming in today and they need someone to watch him."

"He's the one with Palsy right?"

"Yes, Cerebral Palsy and a really bad temper. I better wear my trousers today, he can take a bit of handling. Are you going to be alright with uh...." She motioned toward Sherlock. "How is he doing?"

"The doctor says that his progress is slower than expected. It's not surprising as he wasn't that healthy before the accident and it's not like he eats that much now. Oh that reminds me, we are almost out of bread."

"I'll get some on the way home," she said rising to go to the bathroom.

Later she looked at herself in the mirror before grabbing her coat from the closet and going to stand by the door. "Wish me luck," she said.

John walked over and kissed her on the lips. He opened the door for her and peeked his head out waving as she started down the stairs. He stepped back in and closed the door, turning to find Sherlock standing right in front of him.

Sherlock pushed him against the door with a audible thump and began kissing him seriously. His hands were all over John, touching his cheek and his crotch and his shoulders. John put his hands on Sherlock's hips and pushed him back.

"Sherlock, you can stand?"

"I've been practicing," he said, "last night. I walked all of the way to the bathroom and back."

"That's great," John said, "did you do this just so that you could ... _waylay_ me."

"It's all that I've been thinking about, all through your insanely boring conversation. How can you stand to live in such mundanity? "

"Sherlock, I'm sure that Mary doesn't want us to spend all of our time here snogging."

"I don't intend to spend the time snogging. I have so many other things that I plan to do now that I'm beginning to get my strength back," Sherlock said as he put a folded handkerchief over John's eyes and tied it in place with his teeth because he couldn't reach up with the hand bound in the cast.

"Sherlock!" John said.

"John."

"What are you doing?"

"It's time for my therapy session," he said undoing the buttons on John's shirt before pulling him down onto the carpet.

 

When Mary returned that evening, Sherlock was back on the couch. She put her bags down on the kitchen table and looked over at Sherlock as John came to help her put the groceries up. "He's in exactly the same position that he was when I left," she said, "You shouldn't just let him sleep all day, you need to give him more exercise."

 John picked up the milk and put it away hiding his blush with the refrigerator door.

Mary sat down and kicked off her shoes, pushing her coat onto the back of her chair. John walked behind her picking up the coat and purse and putting them away in the closet. "It was really tiring. Willy was a right bear. Where have I heard that before? Oh my dream. Maybe I'm having prophetic dreams. We saw a play like that in Italy. I never told you about it. Goodness I am glad to have a moment just to sit down and rest. Today felt like it would go on forever," she said.

"It went pretty fast for me."

"Well, you were at home," she said leaning tiredly against one hand. John placed a hot cup of tea in front of her. She beamed at him. "Thank you," she said taking a sip as he opened a package of orange chocolate biscuits and put some on a plate for her. She pulled out her laptop, placing it on the kitchen table and read her email.

John walked back into the kitchen and made another mug with two sugars. He steeled himself and then walked past Mary to the living room to give Sherlock his tea.

He squatted down beside the couch and placed the tea on the table beside Sherlock who lay on his back with his eyes closed. "Such stunning conversation. Do you have to listen to this kind of twaddle every day? I've never heard anything more boring. How can you stand it?"

"Shhhh!" John said, "I'm going to prepare your medicines. Do you want anything, Sherlock?"

"Yes," he said, "could you give me a hand job?"

 "Sherlock!" John whispered, "behave yourself."

A half smile crossed Sherlock's face. John looked over his shoulder and began to stand, but he was held back by fingers against the inside of his wrist. He looked down. They gazed at each other. Sherlock's lips parting slightly as his grip increased. John reached around to hold his hand. Then John raised Sherlock's hand to his lips and kissed it, before rising and walking back to the kitchen.

 Mary turned on the radio to listen to music and the two of them fixed dinner. John cooked some fish and Mary made a salad. Sherlock wouldn't eat the salad, but took a bit of the fish when John fed it to him. That night after Sherlock had been tucked into bed, Mary locked their bedroom door. She removed her robe to reveal leopard print underwear.

 "I went shopping in Italy and bought some clothes, what do you think?"

 John looked her over. "I think it's beautiful," he said.

 "I was hoping for incredibly hot," Mary replied crawling onto the bed, spreading her knees and putting her hands on her hips. "I bought them for you, John. You know that they won't be broken in until they have your hand prints on them. Come here." She wagged a finger at him, and John crossed the room to sit on the side of the bed. Mary took his hand and placed it over her breast. Then she pounced knocking him over and giving him a sloppy kiss.

 

In the dark of evening, John slid out from under Mary's arm and put on his robe as he walked down the hall to the bathroom. He flushed and washed his hands opening the door to find Sherlock standing in front of him.

"Sherlock," John said, "Is something the matter?"

"Yes," he said.

"Are you hurt? What's wrong?" John asked running a finger down his face and chest looking for damage.

"I woke up, and you weren't there."

John sighed, "Oh Sherlock, sometimes you are like a child. Back to bed with you," he said helping Sherlock back to the couch and closing the curtain. He bent down tucking the sheet in around Sherlock, but as he started to rise he felt fingers wrapped around his arm.

"Don't go," Sherlock said, "please John."

John paused and then climbed onto the couch beside Sherlock who scrunched up against the back to give him room. He lay his cast over John's chest pinning him down as he kissed his hair. John closed his eyes but opened them as he felt Sherlock's hand snaking under the waistband of his pajamas. "Sherlock, what are you doing?" he asked, but Sherlock only said, "Quiet! You'll wake Mary."

 

When Mary's alarm clock went off the next morning, She shook John awake. "Wake up sleepy-head," she said. "You must have forgotten to set your alarm. I'm going to shower, make coffee will you?" Then she jumped nimbly from the bed and put on her robe before padding out the door.

John moaned as he tried to find the floor. He rose up and wandered zombie like into the kitchen to start the coffee.

 

The next few days and nights for John were alternately exhilarating and exhausting. He felt like a steak that had been thrown into a dog kennel. Sherlock, consummate actor that he was, would lie on the couch like a man half dead until the moment that Mary left to go to work.

John would kiss her goodbye and close the door behind her only to turn and find Sherlock there behind him surprisingly mobile with hands that reached everywhere and an incredibly nimble tongue.

Sherlock's eyepatch made him look like the rogue that he was, and he never failed to ravish John every morning. Then when Mary returned from work he would be back on the couch looking as if he had never moved.

Mary would tell John about her day at work while he stood behind her chair and rubbed her shoulders. Then John would cook dinner because at this time Mary was supporting them both, ever since John had quit his locum work in order to stay with Sherlock.

  
Eventually, Sherlock was well enough to join them at the table for meals. "Now John" Mary said, "It's time that you started to think about purchasing a practice. We still have that money that Sherlock gave us as a wedding present, and I've seen a couple of them advertised that aren't too far away."

"Doing what?" Sherlock interjected, "treating little old ladies with hemorrhoids and the odd skinned knee."

"Sherlock," Mary replied a bit miffed at the interruption, "John is a doctor. He has to practice medicine."

"He was a field surgeon. Treating coughs and colds will make him go insane," Sherlock said.

"Then what can he do? He needs to make a living."

"He can work for me," Sherlock replied.

"As what?" Mary asked.

"As my publicist and assistant ...no colleague," said Sherlock, "We made quite a bit of money working together before, and I must admit that much of it was due to John's blogging skills."

"My goodness. Was that a compliment?" John said smiling, "Hand me the paper, I need to look up the weather report for Hell. Now both of you. We can explore all possibilities. I'll keep looking for partnerships and practices, and when you recover, Sherlock, we can talk about things like blogging. Now can we get back to this dinner that I slaved hours in the kitchen to make?"

"Honestly John, It took you exactly thirty minutes to make this meal. Rice and instant curry are hardly ..."

"Shut up Sherlock," John said as he shoveled another spoonful onto his plate.

 

The doctor came by and tested Sherlock again. He said that he was progressing much better and removed the eyepatch. Sherlock's vision was odd and unfocused. He kept shaking his head from side to side as if he could fix it that way.

Lestrade dropped by the same day with copies of the files from the bombing case. One man was still on the loose, likely the leader. Sherlock showed some interest in what he said and kept the files in the drawer beside the couch, but Lestrade left disappointed.

"Why did you turn Greg down?" John asked, "You're bored, you want something to think about."

"It's too early," Sherlock said.

"Mind palace dark?" John asked.

"Not dark, but dim. The connections aren't there. I need to jumpstart my brain somehow."

"But how do you do that?" John asked.

"I don't know. Let's have sex."

"but Mary."

"While the cat's away..."

"Away, she's in the bathroom."

"John," Mary called, "do we have any more soap?"

"I stashed some bars under the kitchen sink, do you want me to get you one?"

Sherlock snaked an arm around his hips grabbing his other hand so that if John pulled away he would jar Sherlock's cast. John stood still.

"Could you please?" she asked, "I'm taking a shower."

"This is too much Sherlock. Mary is being more than fair. We need to be more careful."

"No," Sherlock said, "this is a mistake, a farce. This domestic life of yours. Can you call this happiness? You are not made for an ordinary life, John."

"Sherlock, not now," John said firmly as he wriggled out of Sherlock's grasp.

 

That night, Mary claimed him. Apparently, she had gone on quite a shopping spree when she was in Italy. She was wearing a 70s psychedelic print zipper dress which she slowly pulled open to reveal peekaboo pants. That evening she cried out loudly under him. When he tried to cover her mouth to muffle her screams, she pushed his hand away and screamed louder.

"This is my flat." She said later when he asked about it, "and we are legally married. Let the neighbors complain."

In the middle of the night, John left the bathroom to find Sherlock waiting for him with longing in his eyes and a tremor in his bottom lip that could only be stopped by John's kisses.

 

That morning John found Sherlock in the kitchen wearing Mary's apron. "What are you up to?" John asked.

"I'm fixing breakfast. I want to repay you for taking care of me so well," Sherlock said as he shoveled more eggs onto Mary's plate.

"You should try these," Mary said, "Sherlock is a surprisingly good cook."

John went over to sniff the plate, "Is there only food in these eggs, or did you put something else in it?"

"What do you mean John?" Mary asked.

"I mean at home Sherlock would keep the rat poison next to the sugar container," John said.

"But this is Mary's home," Sherlock said, "She doesn't have rat poison. Or at least none that I could find."

"John, I've been thinking. I want to have a Christmas party," Mary said.

"What?" John questioned her, "Why?"

"Because it's Christmas silly," Mary said, "Why else do you have them? Anyway. I have some friends from work that I'd like you to meet, and we can invite all of Sherlock's friends too. It can be a sort of going away party since Sherlock is doing so well."

Sherlock glanced over at her from the kitchen, and then turned back to flip a piece of bacon.

"Well, I don't know. Wouldn't it be a lot of fuss?"John asked.

"You don't have to do a thing. I'll handle everything. Oh! I'm going to be late!" Mary jumped up, "I'll buy invitations and call you at lunchtime. Good day, Love."

John kissed her goodbye at the door and turned but Sherlock was not there. He was still in the kitchen. The sound of sizzling meat the only sound in the room. John walked back to the dining table.

"I shouldn't have cooked this morning," he said, "I should have lay there and looked like I was dying so that she knew that I shouldn't be moved. I've miscalculated."

"It will be alright Sherlock," John said, "I'll talk to Mary."

"No, she's right," he said, " I haven't paid attention because I've been so distracted, but my headaches are gone. I am not so stiff when I walk now. I don't think that I need the wheelchair anymore. And my brain. I have been processing large amounts of information, and I have had no trouble accessing it. I am healing."

"Large amounts of information?" John asked, "What have you been thinking about?"

"About how to get you alone without Mary noticing. About the exact amount of pressure to apply that will give you an erection without making you yell out. About how many orgasms your wife is having and whether I can have the same number."

"My, you are competitive," John said.

"It is so tiring living here," Sherlock said, "I miss the familiar surroundings of my own flat, but I don't want to be apart from you, not even for and instant."

John reached over to turn off the bacon that was beginning to burn, and Sherlock snuggled his body against him. John half-closed his eyes as he held Sherlock simply running his nose against the skin of his chin. Feeling his warmth.

"She's worried," Sherlock whispered, "she knows that we are up to more in the morning than a game of Cluedo."

John placed his hand on Sherlock's scarred cheek and pulled him into a soft kiss.

"Everytime I hear her cry out in passion, I feel that I might die of envy," Sherlock said, "I can't help wanting you, John. It made me so happy when you called our flat ' _home_ '. I want you to come home with me John. Come home and make me as happy as you made her."

"Shut up, Sherlock," John said before stopping up his mouth with his tongue.


	9. Recovery

John looked through the window at Sherlock who was getting his cast removed.

"A drug interaction, you are sure?" John asked.

"Yes, we're sorry. It should have been caught at the pharmacy, but somehow it slipped past us all."

"And what are the symptoms again?"

"Severe mood swings, depression, inability to concentrate, increased libido. It's a new drug and I guess we didn't notice the danger until now."

"So, are the effects reversible?"

"As far as we know. Just to be safe, we are going to take him off of everything except pain killers. Please let us know if he doesn't improve. Also, call us at once if he experiences nosebleeds or vomiting."

"Yes, of course, thank you."

  


John took Sherlock back to the flat. Mary was out.

"How's the arm?" John asked.

"Much better, I can finally move it as I want."

"I suppose that I'd better watch out from now on,"John said suggestively, "You were dangerous enough with one arm."

"What was it you were talking about with the doctor, John? You were gone a long time. I know that something happened. Tell me."

"There was a problem with your medicine," John said, "two of the drugs were never meant to be taken together. They may be the reason for..."

"For what?"

"For the suicide attempt, the dark mind palace, all of it."

Sherlock sat back in the wheelchair, "Is the damage permanent?"

"No, it should be fully reversible."

"But this is wonderful news, John. Why are you so sad about it?"

"I just...I'm a doctor, damn it! I should have known. I should have looked it up myself. Your suicide attempt. If I hadn't been so set on giving you the medicine, it might never have happened."

"And if it hadn't, you might never have told me the truth about how you felt. Forget the past John. It's a new day, and I'm beginning to think that I can feel a change already. Ask me some questions John."

"Alright," John said sitting at the table, "The chemical formula of strychnine."

" C21H22N2O2 Give me something harder than that."

"Alright, where did the bomber go? The one who caused this accident in the first place."

Sherlock sat still for a moment, holding his head up like a hound looking for a scent. "Help me up, John," he said. John walked over and threaded his arm under Sherlock's armpits pulling him up to a standing position.

Sherlock walked to the table and pulled out the files that Lestrade had left him. He laid them out on the table spreading out each image until the table was covered. "Coffee," he said and bent down his head to examine the pictures more closely. John smiled.

"It's so good to see you working again," John said a smile at the edge of his lips.

Sherlock looked up at him fixedly. John leaned down slowly until his face was right next to Sherlock's. He turned his head as he stared at Sherlock's lips, but Sherlock simply said, "Coffee John. It won't make itself."

  


When Mary finally came home that evening. The pictures had spread to the dining room wall and the table was covered with first-hand accounts. Sherlock was pacing. Mary stood near the doorway watching him. Her coat still on, a red shopping bag on her arm.

"This is a change," Mary said, "I suppose that we could eat on the couch."

Sherlock walked into the kitchen then and pulled out a pot before pouring baking soda and vinegar into it. He sniffed and then scrunched up his nose. "The smell!" he cried, "John there must have been a characteristic smell. You can't mix chemicals like this without them. John, give me your phone."

"Your phone is right here," John said pulling it out of the bag and passing it to him.

Sherlock took the phone and turned it on making faces as he waited for it to boot up. "Your phone would be faster," he said holding out his other hand. Then the phone finally beeped and he dialed immediately. "Lestrade...yes it's me. I need background information on the people captured in the bombing attempt: former places of employment, home addresses, whatever you have. Did any of them work at a chemical factory or someplace where strange smells wouldn't be noticed? ...well, I'm glad that you're happy, now can you just look it up for me?"

"John?" Mary asked placing a hand on John's arm.

"Yes, Mary?"

"Shall we go out for dinner?"

"I suppose that might be best, but let's not stay too long. He'll tire soon, and I don't suppose that he'll be as easy to tuck in tonight. Sherlock, we're going out for food. Do you want anything?"

"More baking soda and vinegar," he said mixing the two again but this time adding pepper.

"My kitchen!" Mary said as they pulled the door closed.

"I'll clean it," John said.

  


Mary finished her canelloni and noticed that John had hardly taken a bite of his. "Are you alright, John?"

"Yes, I'm fine."

"John. Tell me."

"It's nothing."

"If it were nothing, you wouldn't be picking at your food. Tell me."

"It's just, I should have noticed the drugs. I'm a doctor for God sake. Those medicines were causing his problems, and I just kept forcing them down his throat."

"You couldn't have known."

"Couldn't I? I should have researched them myself. I should have noticed that he was acting abnormally. He tried to kill himself, but did I take him in to see a psychiatrist ...no. I was ... arrogant enough to think that maybe he was upset over me. That maybe he cared enough... I'm sorry Mary, I shouldn't be talking to you about this. It's so unfair."

"John, calm down. You can't blame yourself."

"Why not?"

"Because it does no one any good. You found out about it in time. Do you think that he'll be alright now?"

"Yes, I think so. He's already starting to act like his old self."

"Isn't that a good thing?"

"Yes...and no."

"Are you going to be alright, John?"

"Yes of course I am. I just needed a moment to get myself together."

"Good, because I'm worried about my kitchen. Waiter! May I please have a take-home box?"

  


They entered the flat to see Sherlock dressed in trousers, socks, and shirt. His shoes were side by side beside the couch, and his jacket was draped over the chair. He was leaning over the table looking at a pair of pictures. He glanced up at them as they entered. "Good John, you're home. We're going out."

"What do you mean, out? The cast just came off today."

"I know," Sherlock said, "but I have a lead. I asked Lestrade about former places of work, and I think I know where the explosives were manufactured. A factory near the river. Coming?"

Sherlock strode across the floor. His foot slipped on a paper and he fell. John rushed forward and caught him lowering him gently to the ground.

"Sherlock, you're recovering from a serious injury. I know that you feel better now that we've solved that drug problem, but your body is still unwell. I will not let you go walking around a cold factory this late at night." Sherlock looked up into John's face. John's arms were still wrapped around his body.

"I suppose you'll be pushing me in the wheelchair then." Sherlock said.

  


Someone threw a switch and the lights came on in the abandoned factory. Lestrade's team spilled slowly through the door spreading out in all directions.

John wheeled Sherlock into the center of the huge, mostly empty room. Sherlock's eyes looked all around him. He pointed, "There, John." and John wheeled him over to a series of sinks next to a metal rubbish can. Sherlock reached inside the can and pulled out his hand to reveal fingertips covered with grey ash. He smelled it.

"Here. They were making the explosives here," he said before placing his other hand against the side of the can. Then he looked at the sink. "John," Sherlock whispered, "Someone was working here moments ago. The bomber must still be here. Adjust my footstand."

John didn't understand Sherlock at first. He bent down to adjust the metal pad that held Sherlock's feet. "What am I doing, Sherlock?" he asked.

"Do you have your gun?" Sherlock said.

"Yes."

"He's here in the roof. I can see his reflection in the faucet. Do you see him?"

John tilted his face up toward Sherlock as he looked past him out of the corner of his eyes to see a man crouching in the railings over the suspended lights. "He's got something in his hand. It's not a gun."

"Probably a trigger for an explosive device."

"Should I get Lestrade?"

Sherlock shook his head, "No time. If he suspects that we see him, he will set off the explosion. You're going to have to shoot him."

John leaned down pulling out his gun and propping it on Sherlock's knee. "It's a long shot. I don't know if I can get him."

"If anyone can do it, John, you can."

John stretched his arms out on Sherlock's lap and then he scrunched down angling his arms up to aim at the man in the rafters. Sherlock stood perfectly still as John breathed out strongly before lining up the shot and pulling the trigger.

The loud boom echoed in the empty factory and all of the yarders turned in surprise. A surprise amplified by the sound of a body impacting into a pile of wooden crates as the bomber landed with a crash.

Sherlock's smile was incandescent, "Magnificent John, that shot was absolutely magnificent."

  


That night they came home to find Mary not only awake, but waiting for them. "Welcome conquering heroes," she said. "I have food and grog ready for you."

"Thank's Mary," John said walking around the wheelchair to give Mary a big hug. Sherlock locked the wheels and lifted himself out of the chair. He staggered across to the table and sat down. "I'm famished," he said picking up a fresh baked roll and covering it with honey.

"This is impressive, you didn't have to wait up."  
"And miss your homecoming? Never." Mary said placing a cold beer into John's hand. John smiled and sat down. Mary sat beside him leaning forward. "Tell me everything," she said.

"Well," John began, "We went to a factory beside the river, it seemed like there was no one there."

"It was my deductive skills that located the factory," Sherlock interrupted, "I deduced that the bomber would need to replenish his supply, so I looked for places where small scale chemical manufacture could go on undetected. Thus, the factory."

John began again, "When we got there, he was hiding..."

"I could tell from the heat of the barrel and the ash marks still present on the faucet that someone had recently stood where we were standing, and then I saw him in the rafters only moments from blowing us all into dust, and then John made an excellent shot and the bomber fell from the roof. It was exhilarating."

"Someone tried to kill you again."

"They did not succeed. John's marksmanship is truly amazing," Sherlock said.

"You killed a man?"

"He fell on some boxes, he's in the hospital."

"Fate decides to return some of the grief to the one who caused it. Perhaps we should recommend that he be placed on the same medicines that I was. Mary, I must compliment you on these rolls. They are excellent."

"Thank you," She said turning back to look at John's disappointed expression.

  


In the dark of the evening, John stepped out of the bathroom and turned off the light. The flat was silent. John walked into the living room and over to the couch where Sherlock lay. He was on his back, his eyes closed. John started to walk away only to hear Sherlock speak, "What is it, John. Do you have something to say?"

"I was just wondering...if you are okay?"

"I'm fine, John," Sherlock said, "Better than fine. I am rearranging my mind palace. The last few weeks were horrible. I'm thinking of deleting all of it from my memory. It's so good to be back to normal."

"I see," John said, "goodnight then."

"Goodnight, John." Sherlock said never once opening his eyes. If he had opened them, he might have seen the look of pain that crossed John's face as he heard those words. The pain that Sherlock caused by saying that he wanted to forget forever what John regarded as some of the best days of his life.


	10. The Christmas Party

The day of the Christmas Party arrived. Mary was busy in the kitchen making hors d'oevres while John put decorations up. Even Sherlock helped by decorating the tree, however his haphazard placement of ornaments showed that he had never done it before.

"Spread them out Sherlock. Don't put them all in one place," John criticized, "and layer them, some in the back some forward so that they catch the light."

"If you're such an expert, why don't you do it?" Sherlock countered.

"I'm trying to hang this mistletoe," John said standing up on a chair and reaching for the ceiling.

Sherlock strode over and motioned for him to get down. "You are both too short for this sort of work. Let me do it." He climbed onto the chair, deftly hanging the sprig of mistletoe on the hook.

John put a hand on the back of the chair, steadying it, while Sherlock descended. He placed one hand on John's shoulder as he lowered himself carefully to the ground. John looked up into Sherlock's eyes, reaching out his hand to stroke Sherlock's back before placing his other hand behind Sherlock's neck pulling him down into a kiss. John closed his eyes.

He opened them again as Sherlock disengaged from the kiss. His expression one of mild surprise and guilt. He coughed nervously, "Ah, mistletoe," he said, "Sir George Frazer in The Golden Bough associates it with numerous fertility rituals, but kissing is the only tradition that remains. There used to be human sacrifice."

John stood stiffly focusing on Sherlock as he said, "Sherlock. I need to know."

"Know what?"

"How much of what we had was real, and how much was from the drugs."

Sherlock was silent.

"Sherlock, do you feel ... anything for me?"

Sherlock's eyes softened. "You know that I care for you, John," he said.

John shuffled forward until he was standing too close to Sherlock. Sherlock leaned away. "You once asked me to leave Mary, and come away with you? Did you mean that?"

"John, I ... Of course I want you back at Baker street, but ... I don't know if I feel the same...desires."

John threaded his arm around Sherlock's waist pulling him in closer so that their chests touched. Sherlock looked down at John who asked, "If I came home with you, moved back to Baker street, would it be the way that it was between us?"

Both of them turned at the sound of a bowl hitting the floor. Mary was holding a bag of crisps in one hand as she stared at them. The bowl rolled across the floor at her feet.

No one moved for several seconds. Then John stepped away from Sherlock and turned toward her. "Mary..." he said just as the doorbell rang. It rang again, and no one moved. Sherlock looked between John and Mary and then walked across the room to open the door. It was Detective Inspector Lestrade who stood smiling and holding a six pack of beer. "Am I early?" He asked.

Mary bent down and picked up the bowl, putting it and the bag on the table before striding across the room toward Lestrade. "No, Greg, you're right on time. Come in," She said gesturing toward the couch. She took the beer from his hands. "I'll just put this in to cool, shall I?" John followed her with his eyes as she walked past without glancing at him.

Lestrade looked around the room silently adding up the awkward glances, then he shrugged and turned toward Sherlock. "You're looking well," he said, "I told John that you would recover. All broken up over you he was, but I knew that you were too stubborn to die." He clapped a hand on Sherlock's shoulder.

Sherlock glanced at his hand with distaste, and Lestrade dropped it back to his side. "As you can see, I am feeling much better." Sherlock said, "tell me, how does the case go, did you get sufficient evidence?"

"Yes," Lestrade said, "That's all sorted, we're just waiting on him to recover before we set a court date, but I was wondering...now that you're doing so much better can you help us on a new case."

"A new case?" Sherlock asked, a hint of excitement in his voice.

John walked across the room to the Christmas tree, and picked up the box of decorations. He carried it across to the closet and hid it on a high shelf, before returning for Greg's coat hanging it on the rack. He looked toward the kitchen where Mary had gone. He wondered what she was doing? Crying? sharpening kitchen knives? Should he confront her? What would he say?

The bell rang again. This time it was Mrs Hudson. "Here's some wine, dearies," she said, "and this is for you Sherlock. My goodness you almost look your old self." She handed Sherlock a wrapped present and his violin case. "I was hoping you might play us a tune like you used to do," she said but open the present first.

John took the wine from her hands, placing it on the table. He briefly peeked into the kitchen at Mary before stepping back into the living room, as Sherlock unwrapped the present. It was a pair of elf slippers complete with jingle bells on the curled toes. "Why thank you," Sherlock said mechanically.

"Don't mention it dear, why don't you try them on?"

"Perhaps later," Sherlock said placing the shoes carefully under the tree.

"Such a nice place you have here John," Mrs Hudson said, "And where is your lovely wife?"

"She's in the kitchen, she'll be out shortly," John said glancing backwards with trepedation.

Sherlock began to play a few notes on his violin. He tuned it apologizing for being out of practice before starting in on ' _We Wish You a Merry Christmas_ '.

John placed Mrs Hudson's coat in the closet, using it as an excuse to avoid conversation as he tried to put his muddled emotions in order. Sherlock was his old self. That is his old, old self. He hadn't touched John since they had returned from the case. John's kiss had been an act of desperation, a question. Would Sherlock ever be intimate with him again, or did he now associate making love to John with the illness. Something messy, biological, and best forgotten. Maybe he regretted ever initiating a sexual relationship with John. Would he ignore him from now on, reject him? John leaned into the closet and hung his head.

The music that Sherlock was playing changed then from Christmas songs to something altogether more stirring and passionate. John recognized it as _Beethoven's Romance no. 2_. Sherlock had played it for him the morning after their first night together. John closed the closet door and turned to face Sherlock.

The last time that Sherlock had played it for him, John had been in another room. Now John watched riveted as Sherlock stood, eyes closed, moving his torso in deep slow movements as he played. His body rocked with the rhythm swaying in time with the low and high notes. John couldn't take his eyes off of him. It was as if the rest of the room fell away, and there was only Sherlock playing just for him.

It was only after Sherlock played the last note that John noticed that he was crying. He turned away embarrassed that everyone would have seen his overreaction, but they were all on their feet clapping. Even Mary who had come out of her hiding place of the kitchen to watch him. Sherlock took a bow and another as they crowded forward to congratulate him.

"Very good. Very good!" Lestrade said.

"That was just lovely," said Mrs Hudson.

They stood around Sherlock laughing and smiling. Then Sherlock raised his eyes and gazed across the room at John who felt that he might melt into the floor at his glance. Then the doorbell rang and John took the opportunity to wipe his eyes as he rushed to get it. He opened the door to find Mycroft Holmes.

Mycroft smiled at him. Could he tell that he had been crying? John motioned for him to come in noticing that Mary was standing at his side. He looked at her. She smiled at Mycroft.

"And this must be Mrs. Watson. Charmed to meet you madam. I am Sherlock's brother, Mycroft." He kissed her hand, "I wanted to thank you for your excellent care of my brother. Please accept this small token of my esteem." He handed Mary a gold bag. Inside it was a jar of the finest Beluga caviar.

Mary drew in a breath, "Why thank you," She said, "Let me go see if we have a butter dish to put this in." and she ran off with her prize to the kitchen.

Mycroft reached out to shake John's hand. "It is always a pleasure to see you Doctor John Watson. I never felt that I was able to adequately thank you for the care that you have bestowed on my brother after his accident. He is indeed privileged to have you as a friend."

"It's no problem." John said.

All of this time Mycroft held his hand firmly but gently. Even though they had finished talking, he still held his hand as he stared at John,with an uneven smile on his lips. Sherlock raised his eyebrows and turned to stare at his brother. Mycroft let John's hand go.

"Ah, Sherlock." He began, "You seem much improved under Mary and John's ...loving care."

"Hello Mycroft," Sherlock said coldly, "We both know that you didn't come here to see me."

"I just wanted to wish you a Happy Christmas, and now I think that I have just spied cheese cubes on toothpicks." Mycroft went off to the kitchen, and Sherlock came to whisper in John's ear. "Did you like my playing? I know you did because I saw you cry. I may not have been clear before when I said that I do want you to come back home and live with me. We can live as we did before Mary. How convenient that everyone will be here. We can announce it tonight."

"What exactly do you mean by, before Mary?" John asked Sherlock.

"John," Mary called, "Do you think that you can help me with these gerkins?"

"Of course dear," John replied walking over to her.

He twisted the lid, but it was very stubbornly fixed closed. He wiped his brow. "It's getting a bit hot in here," John said, "Maybe I should take off this jumper." He looked up to find three pairs of eyes, (Mary's, Sherlock's, and Mycroft's) staring at him. "Then again...maybe not." He said as a 'pop' informed him that the jar was now open.

The bell rang again, and John handed the jar to Mary as he went to answer the door. It was Molly. She wore a long green coat and had a sprig of holly in her hair. "Some wine for the party," She said handing it over. Mary came over to say hello, and John gave the wine to her before helping Molly off with her coat.

"Good King Wenceslaus!" John exclaimed as he looked at her. Molly was wearing black knee high boots and a green dress, but the dress was incredibly short and it was so tight it looked as if it was painted on.

"Oh you look nice, Molly," Mrs Hudson said as Lestrade finally remembered to raise his jaw which had fallen open at the sight of her dress.

"Hi Sherlock," she said.

He nodded and went back to talking to Lestrade. They were both sitting on the couch now, but Lestrade was obviously distracted by the fact that when she stood beside them trying unsuccessfully to get Sherlock's attention, the bottom of her skirt was above Lestrade's elbow.

Suddenly they heard an erotic moaning sound and everyone but Mary stared at Sherlock. "It can't be..." Molly said.

Sherlock pulled out his phone and opened it. "No. It's not Irene," he said, "It's Kate. She has Irene's old number."

Sherlock read the text, and then stood and went to the door. He opened it to find a small box lying on the ground. "Haven't you changed that text alert sound yet?" John said, "Wait. Don't you have a new phone?"

"I transferred all of the settings when I got it." Sherlock said.

"Well, open it!" Mrs Hudson said as they all stared at Sherlock. He opened the shiny red box to reveal a set of handcuffs.

"What's that for?" Molly asked.

"Oh there are lots of good uses for a pair of handcuffs," Mrs Hudson said, "In my day..."

Mary leaned over to John and whispered in his ear, "I feel that I'm missing something."

"It's a bit of a long story," John said glad that she was talking to him again, "I'll tell you later."

Lestrade took a professional look at the handcuffs before handing them to Sherlock who hung them up on the tree.

Next to arrive were a group of Mary's work friends. She grabbed on to John's arm showing him off like a show pony. Sherlock stood next to the tree staring disdainfully at them. When he could get away, John went over to Sherlock who whispered in his ear, "Are you ready?"

"Ready for what?" John asked.

"To tell everyone that you are moving back in with me."

John turned to stare at Sherlock, "Are you asking me? What are you asking?"

"You know that your married life is a farce. You've all but told me that you want to move back to 221B. What are we waiting for?"

"Sherlock!" John whispered back harshly, "Not in front of Mary's friends. Not when she's trying to show them her new happily married life. That would be unforgivable."

John walked off across the room, his stomach turning in knots. He didn't understand what was going on anymore. He took a deep breath and looked around to see that he was next to Molly. She was standing under the mistletoe, a forlorn expression on her face. Every so often she glanced across the room at Sherlock.

"Hello Molly." John said, "enjoying the party?"

"Um huh," Molly muttered, "Oh John, I had something to tell you. On the bulletin board at Barts there's an advertisement. They're opening a new clinic there for veterans back from the wars. They want to hire a doctor to run it. I thought that you'd be perfect for it being that you're a veteran yourself."

"That sounds interesting," John said, "Where is that?"

"At Barts like I said. It's new. It's only part-time but I thought that you might be interested."

"Yes, I am. Thank you. I'll look into it." John said. He noticed that Molly's mood had picked up and she stood a little straighter. When he turned he saw that Sherlock had come across the room to talk to him.

He leaned over to John and whispered. "Don't be stubborn John. Why won't you say anything. We have quite an audience now." John looked at Sherlock. He slowly reached out his fingers to hold Sherlock's hand, but Sherlock pulled away. "I've got it." Sherlock said, "We are under the mistletoe. All I have to do is kiss you, and everyone will understand that you prefer to be with me."

"No," John said, "I haven't decided what I want to do yet."

Sherlock looked irritated, "But earlier you said..." Then Sherlock paused looking down at John's hand. "I see, it's about the sex. I told you before, John, I may not want to be physical all of the time, but I have no trouble servicing you if that's what you need. Come on John kiss me."

Sherlock leaned toward John, but John pushed him away yelling, "I am NOT a sex toy!"

John looked up to find all of the eyes on the room on him. He froze for a moment before striding across to the dining room, hoping to find some task to do that would keep him busy and away from Sherlock. He moved the plates on the table, straightening the napkins before simply sitting down in a chair exhausted. A hand touched his shoulder. He looked up into the blue eyes of Mycroft Holmes.

"I understand that my brother can be trying at times," he said, "If you ever need to get away, I do have a place..."

"Oh bloody hell!" John said rising from the chair and walking to the closet to get his coat.

"Where are you...?" Mary asked as he opened the door.

"Out." he said then he took a breath and leaned toward her, "I just... I just need some air."

"John, we should talk."

"Later," he said and left the flat.

John ran down the stairs. He pulled up his coat collar as he left the building. Suddenly his life was too complicated. He put his hands in his pockets and walked ahead not knowing or caring what his destination was.

*******

Mary picked up the abandoned plates and glasses and stacked them beside the sink.

"That party was remarkably short-lived," Sherlock said, "I suppose that John really is the life of the party."

"It certainly won't go down as the stunning success of the season," Mary said surveying the room.

After John had left, the atmosphere had turned decidedly sour. Mycroft had been the first to leave, followed by Molly and Mary's friends. Mrs Hudson had tried to inject some cheer into the proceeding by singing Christmas songs, but even that had fallen flat, and soon the two of them were left alone.

Sherlock sat on the couch. "Would you like me to make up a bed for you again?" Mary asked.

"No thank you, I'll be fine with the duvet," Sherlock said.

Mary walked across to the closet, pulled out a stool and stood on it as she pulled down the duvet. She walked across and handed it and a pillow to Sherlock. "Well if you don't mind, I think I'll leave the clean up for tomorrow and go to bed. Is there anything else that you need?"

"No."

"Then goodnight," she said walking to her bedroom. Sherlock lay awake listening for the sound of John's key in the lock, but he did not return that night.

 

Morning came, and Mary and Sherlock moved through the flat in silence. Mary cleaned the dishes, and gave Sherlock a cup of tea. Sherlock sat staring up at the door. At noon, the cab came for him. He stood tall bundled up in his coat and scarf, his violin case under one hand, a bag in the other.

"I'll send along the rest of your things tomorrow," Mary said.

"Please inform me when John returns. I'd like to have a word with him, but he's cut off his phone."

"I know," Mary said, "and if he should come to your flat..."

"I shall do the same. Thank you Mary for your hospitality."

"You are welcome. Goodbye Mr. Holmes."

"Goodbye, Mrs. ...Mary."

Sherlock turned and left the flat. Mary closed the door and fell against the surface allowing herself to slide down to the floor. She put her head in her hands, but she was unable to cry.

 

 

 

**END DAMAGED**

 

The story continues with **RUNAWAY**.


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